


The Bonds of Government Work, and worrying over a certain consulting detective

by shadowed_sunsets



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Greg is a competent DI, Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft is a good brother, Pre-Relationship, fluff?, implied/referenced canon drug use, injury prone Greg, smartarse sherlock, sneaky but helpful mycroft, takes place pre-series through end of s1, violence and angst consistent with series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 04:08:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7152896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowed_sunsets/pseuds/shadowed_sunsets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 5+1 in which Mycroft Holmes (minor government official) and Gregory Lestrade (Detective Inspector) bond first through worrying over Sherlock; then continue finding themselves in each others company, for different reasons, and come to realize they don't really mind.</p><p>(aka five times Mycroft "patched up" Greg, and one time Greg returned the favor)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monkiainen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monkiainen/gifts).



1.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade enjoyed his job, really. Police work could be exciting.

Well, the investigating part could be. At the beginning when they arrived on a crime scene. Then using the clues they saw began piecing together what could have happened to the victim. Digging into the victims lives to find suspects and motives, with interrogations and questionings soon following to weed out the false leads.

There were always too many false leads. And too many people they did find who didn’t end up being helpful at all.

The chasing or hunting down of their final suspect was often the best. The rush of hurrying through the streets of London knowing who they were after and hoping the suspect would be where they had tracked them. The burning question of if the suspect would run or would submit to being arrested.

And finally, how long it would take before the suspect broke and confessed to the crime they had committed.

That part of police work, being a detective, Greg didn’t mind. It was exciting, and he always felt a thrill being able to put criminals away and give satisfaction to victims and their families.

The paperwork, piles of folders containing paperwork that never seemed to fully disappear from his desk, was the boring, awful part of police work. The long nights of work, the restless, sleepless nights until they found the right suspect, were almost just as awful.

The problem was, it always seemed to take too long to find their suspect and to arrest them. The clues never came together quickly enough, the answer to the puzzle took too long to reveal itself, and no one came forward or confessed early enough. Sometimes the sleepless nights Greg suffered through stacked up on each other so much that he was left running solely on caffeine dregs to make it through to the end.

But they were relying on people, human kindness, human motivation, and human suspicion. So of course it took longer. There was no way around that, or so it seemed no matter how hard Greg tried.

Until one rainy night a young brilliant junkie literally stumbled onto his crime scene. Then refused to be turned away until Greg finally came and listened to the boy as he solved the entire case right in front of him.

Greg had been shocked, confused, and… intrigued. But as brilliant as the boy was (Greg couldn’t imagine having a brain like that), he was still obviously a junkie. And Greg couldn’t take that risk.

So Greg wrote down everything he could of what the boy had told him and instructed one of the uniforms to help the boy to the nearest cab.

He also took down the boy's name, but was offered no contact information. So in case the boy was actually right and he needed to follow up, hopefully Greg could find him.

(What kind of name was Sherlock Holmes anyways? And how hard would it be to track him down?)

HIs answer to that came when a few weeks later the brilliant junkie boy appeared at his crime scene again. And tried again to tell him exactly what had happened to the victim without barely even seeing or being told anything about the scene.

This time Greg had taken Sherlock to the side, away from the other officers who were actually doing their jobs. Then he let the boy lose, taking everything Sherlock gave him about what he’d put together and jotting it down as fast as he could keep up.

The boy was obviously brilliant, that couldn’t be denied. But he spoke so quickly Greg could barely understand him; all the while depending on the wall of the building behind him to stay upright and keeping his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat to hide his shaking. The unwashed state of his hair, red-rimmed eyes, and the skeleton-like look of him, was just the more obvious signs. 

Greg didn’t know much about the boy, except that he was a junkie and brilliant. But the same character flaw of his that drove him to become an officer and want to put away criminals, also made him want to help the boy. However he was allowed to help. Since even in the little time he’d known the boy Greg was already certain Sherlock would not allow any help or pity.

So this time, after Greg wrote down everything Sherlock told him, he gave Sherlock his card- the one with his mobile number written in pen on the back of it- and made the boy promise to call him if he was ever really in trouble.

After months went by without hearing from Sherlock (which Greg hadn’t really expected) or without seeing Sherlock at scenes (which Greg had expected), Greg suspected the worst about what could have possibly happened to the boy.

Then at a ridiculously late hour on his way home from a crime scene, barely able to keep his eyes open, his mobile buzzed in the pocket of his coat.

Keeping one hand on the wheel and one eye on the road (even with the little amount of traffic), Greg fished a hand into his pocket and managed to pull out his mobile. Just then the light turned red so he came to a very abrupt stop and raised it to his eyes.

His foot nearly slipped on the brake pedal as he read the short text.

Montague Street. Emergency. Come quickly. It’s Sherlock.

Without checking if the light had changed Greg jerked the wheel sharply to turn the car around in the middle of the street. Once he was facing the right direction he pressed down on the gas pedal and pushed the car to go as quickly as it could towards Montague Street.

He hadn’t even known where Sherlock lived, or where he was hopefully keeping off the streets. But Montague Street was a surprise. It wasn’t the best or the worst area, but couldn’t Sherlock do any better? Even if caring about where he was living wasn’t exactly at the top of his priorities?

With the lack of traffic, mostly empty streets, and the traffic lights, which seemed to always turn green in time for him to rush through, Greg managed to arrive at the Montague street address more quickly than he’d planned. Taking advantage of the unofficial perk of being police to park anywhere, Greg parked right in front. He only took the time to turn off his car before he tumbled out and ran towards the building.

Curiously there was an expensive black car with tinted windows sitting on the street just ahead of where he’d left his car, but as he pushed through the unlocked front door Greg only spared a brief thought of why someone who drove that kind of car was in this neighborhood.

Then he was standing inside what could be kindly called the entrance for the building, and stopped abruptly. Even in here the lights were either dim or out completely, and at the very edge of his vision he could see one flickering weakly. The smell wasn’t doing his nose any favors either and it looked like no one had even made an attempt to tidy or clean this place in months.

And this was where Sherlock was living. Somewhere, in this building. In one of the flats.

His mystery texter hadn’t exactly included which flat Sherlock was in, and Greg wasn’t in the mood to go around knocking on doors and flashing his badge. Especially at this hour and with the kind of people he expected lived in such a building.

So Greg stood in the middle of the entryway at the bottom of the stairs up to the upper story, and yelled as loudly as he could, “Sherlock!”

“Upstairs, Detective Inspector!” A voice that was definitely not Sherlock’s but had a similar accent to it called down from what sounded like just at the top of the stairs.

Greg rushed forward, taking one step then another up the stairs. The use of his title by whoever was up there and the relief that hopefully someone had been looking after Sherlock while Greg was on his way put extra energy in his steps.

When Greg had made it nearly to the top of the stairs there was a loud crash of something not so solid meeting something else solid. As Greg froze on the step, staring upward horrified, a strangled yell from Sherlock came of, “Go away!”

The rest of his journey rushing up the stairs and through the first door he saw at the top of the stairs was mostly a blur, he was in such a hurry to get to where Sherlock was and possibly rescue or protect him.

The door to the first room had been left partially open, so Greg shouldered it open the rest of the way and stumbled inside. Then he stopped abruptly just a step inside the door at the scene he’d found.

The room, for what it was, was an absolute mess. There were books and papers stacked everywhere around the floor and near the walls. What remained of the wallpaper was clinging to the walls only still in some places but was mostly flaked off. The shades were drawn over the two windows cutting off any natural light that may have come in during the day.

The only furniture in the room was a three-shelved bookcase overflowing with books pushed into any available space holding up its own part of the wall, a battered wooden table in the center of the room that looked like it’d seen better days, and a sofa.

As soon as his gaze drifted to the sofa Greg couldn’t look away in fear something else would go wrong.

Sherlock was curled in on himself on two of the sofa cushions; barely recognizable dressed in a faded t-shirt and loose pajama bottoms. He was pressed into the back of the sofa, his bare feet pushed into the space between the two cushions. 

His head was at the other end of the sofa, his face hidden from view and sweat-dampened curls clinging to his neck. The pale skin visible beyond the confines of his shirtsleeves and pajama legs looked even paler against the fabric of the cushions. And sitting next to him in the small space between Sherlock and the arm of the sofa was a man, a little younger than Greg. 

Greg was sure he had never seen him before. The man had very carefully combed and maintained dark ginger hair and a sharp profile with skin almost as pale as Sherlock's. But he had Sherlock’s left arm draped over his leg and his hand wrapped around Sherlock’s left wrist near his pulse. He was wearing a waistcoat that was open with a collared shirt still buttoned to his neck but the sleeves were carefully rolled up to his elbows. If Greg had to guess he’d come to look in on Sherlock right after he finished his day at whatever government office he worked in. There was a look to all of these government types that Greg had learned to notice.

The man’s other hand was gripping at the edge of the sofa cushion next to him, and he was staring down at Sherlock with a look full of regret and worry. Not the look that a stranger would give Sherlock, or even a common acquaintance that didn’t spend much time with the boy. So someone close to him then, who’d likely seen this before.

Greg cleared his throat and took another step into the room. “Er, hello,” he offered in what he hoped was a quiet voice.

The man didn’t startle at the sound of Greg’s voice, but he also didn’t glance over at Greg or away from Sherlock. Still he greeted, “Hello, Detective Inspector.”

A loud, exasperated sigh came from somewhere near Sherlock’s head and as a full-body tremor swept over him the boy shifted slightly on the cushion.

“Why can’t you all just go away,” the boy tried to demand but the words mostly all slurred together so it was hard to understand him. “Don’t need anyone.”

“I’m not leaving you, Sherlock,” the man said firmly, readjusting his hold on Sherlock’s wrist when the boy tried to pull away from him. “No matter what you try.”

"Don't want you here, My," Sherlock insisted angrily, his entire body shaking in a way that meant he couldn’t stay still. He tried to curl more tightly in on himself, but his legs moved so slowly across the cushions towards his chest it was almost painful to watch. "Go back to running the government, that's always been more important to you."

"Not when you've decided to continue systematically poisoning yourself," the other man- My?- replied evenly, perfectly calm even in the face of Sherlock's temper.

"Like you care," Sherlock snarled, pressing his face further into the fabric of the cushion.

"You need looking after, Sherlock. Especially since you obviously aren't capable of looking after yourself," the man told Sherlock in clipped tones, his hand tightening around Sherlock's thin, bony wrist.

Even in his weakened, altered state that was apparently all the scolding Sherlock could stand. In a sudden burst of energy Sherlock pushed himself partially up off the sofa and with his free hand reached across to snatch the mobile from it’s place on the man's other knee.

He wrapped his fingers around the mobile and before the man could do more then sharply scold, "Sherlock!" He bent his arm and flung it as hard as he could away from him, shouting, "I am not a child!"

Unfortunately the direction Sherlock had chosen to fling the mobile was- unknowingly or not- exactly where Greg was standing just inside the doorway. In almost slow motion Greg watched as the mobile sailed towards him, coming closer and closer. His brain managed to get a signal to the rest of his body to duck out of the way just in time, so it flew right past his ear.

A few seconds later he heard the fragile mobile make contact with the solid wall, and following human nature Greg turned his head to look at the destruction.

“Sherlock, there was no call for such behavior,” he heard the unknown man scold from behind him, his voice sharp but resigned.

Greg had turned to look just as the mobile shattered on contact with the wall, the case and screen breaking into shards that ricocheted off the wall and back towards Greg.

He closed his eyes to protect himself and brought his hands up as a shield. But not quickly enough as he felt stinging cuts burst across his cheeks and forehead. They probably were just as dangerous as paper cuts, but god they hurt.

“Detective Inspector! Are you alright?” The man called, sounding actually worried. There was another low annoyed groan from the sofa that could only be Sherlock.

“Now will you both go away?” Sherlock questioned, his voice slightly muffled again.

Greg slowly turned around, not really thinking about what he looked like, to face the sofa again. Sherlock had curled into an even tighter ball, managing to fit on almost just one of the cushions with his face pressed into the cushion again. The other man was still holding onto his wrist, clutching at it almost, while Sherlock’s head pushed against the side of his leg.

“That wasn’t very nice, Sherlock,” Greg admonished, brushing his hand over the stinging cuts. It made them hurt more, and when Greg looked down at his hand there were small marks of bright red blood against his skin. “Look at this, I’m bleeding.”

“You’ll be fine,” Sherlock mumbled into the fabric just before another full-body tremor wracked his body. 

He made a soft noise of discomfort then shuffled forward, trying to fit himself into the hairline space between the back of the sofa and the cushions. “My,” Sherlock said in what from anyone else would be called a plaintive whine. “Hurts.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” the man whispered quietly, still clutching at Sherlock’s wrist. He lifted his other hand from his leg and moved it to hover over the top of Sherlock’s head and the dark sweat-dampened curls. But he didn’t set it down.

Instead the man turned his head so his gaze could settle on the broken remnants of his phone scattered over the ground. “You will be paying for a new phone, however.”

Sherlock made an annoyed noise but didn’t put his exasperation into words this time. The only sign were the fingers of his hand currently gripped in the other man’s curled inwards until his hand was a fist.

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine,” Greg spoke into the silence that had fallen, wiping a hand over his face again now that the stinging pain had lessened.

The other man, who Sherlock had been calling My, finally raised his head to look directly at Greg. His eyes were surprisingly light, almost as pale as Sherlock’s. And, for the first time, Greg could see a slight, very possible, family resemblance. Especially the same calculating, considering gaze.

“I’m glad you weren’t hurt, Detective Inspector. Especially since you were kind enough to come so rapidly at my request.”

Greg stopped rubbing at his cuts to freeze, staring at the other man. “That was you? How did you get my number?”

The man only offered a small, mysterious smile in response that only made Greg more determined for an answer.

Except just then a siren blared just outside the window, followed by the eye-searingly bright flashing lights of…

“Is that an ambulance?” Greg questioned, probably unnecessarily what with the siren and flashing lights just outside the building on the street.

“Of course,” The man confirmed pleasantly, as if this should be plainly obvious. “I rang them just after I found Sherlock in this condition.” After a long consideration ‘My’ finally lowered his hand to rest lightly on top of Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock hummed lowly under his breath, pressing into the hand and pushing his face against the man’s leg. “My.”

“Would you go meet the ambulance, Detective Inspector?” ‘My’ requested pleasantly enough even if Greg knew it was more a command. “I’m afraid I can’t move at the moment.”

“Sure, I’ll… be right back.” Greg agreed, turning around and carefully avoided the debris from the mobile as he walked back to the door. The siren from the ambulance had been silenced, but the lights were still flashing.

He was stepping through the open doorway when ‘My’ called, making Greg stop, “You may also want to request a first aid kit from one of the paramedics. To help with those cuts on your face.”

“At least they’ve stopped bleeding,” Greg replied easily, with a chuckle. “It’s not the worst injury I’ve seen on the force.”

HIs response seemed to surprise the other man, if the slight widening of his eyes and sudden twist to his mouth meant what Greg thought it did.

Before he could do anything else, Greg turned back around and walked through the door to quickly rush down the stairs to end up at the front door. 

The ambulance was double-parked on the street right outside of the building; and as Greg walked outside one of the paramedics was walking up to the front door while the other stayed at the back of the ambulance.

Greg waved down the paramedic walking towards him and came to a slow stop where they met. The paramedic, the tag on his uniform said ‘Jones’ treated him to a curious but impatient to do his job look.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Greg intoned, the title rolling off his tongue easily by now. “You want the first door right at the top of the stairs. Early 30s male, suffering severe drug related withdrawal. He was mostly conscious last I saw him a few minutes ago.” Greg stopped and let the official tone drop from his voice. “He’s still not in a very good way. Someone’s up there now with him, but…”

The paramedic spoke over him before Greg could trail off into silence for too long. “That’s what we’re here for. We’ll look after him and get him to hospital.” The man raised his hand and lightly patted Greg on the shoulder in what was probably meant to be a reassuring gesture. “No need to worry, sir.”

Then the man turned and called back to his partner by the ambulance, “Hey, Pete, come on! I’ll need your help on this one.”

“Coming!” The paramedic hovering at the back of the ambulance called. He grabbed some kind of kit from inside then swung the back doors closed on each other. The man stepped up onto the pavement then jogged over to them, waving at Greg with his free hand. “Hello, sir.”

Greg straightened his posture, shifting slightly on the pavement. Apparently he’d gotten to the point in his career where even without introducing himself he looked like a proper, senior officer. “Evening.”

“Through the front, up the stairs, first door you see. Suspected severe drug withdrawal,” Jones the senior paramedic instructed his fellow paramedic in a clipped no-nonsense tone Greg appreciated. “Get going.”

Pete the paramedic nodded to Greg then quickly went past them to rush up to the front doors and take the front steps in one leap. He pushed past the door and disappeared inside.

“Don’t worry, he’s young but he knows his job. He’ll take care of your lad,” Jones the paramedic said into the heavy silence now that they were just standing there. After a pause he gave Greg a closer look. “Are you alright, sir? Those cuts look nasty.”

Without meaning to Greg raised his hand to brush at one of the cuts on his cheeks, which was stupid because it just made it hurt again. “It’s fine, just an accident.”

The paramedic looked slightly appeased by this explanation, taking a step back from Greg. “Yes, sir. But I do have a first aid kit in the back with plasters if you need any.”

From the building behind them came the sound of a window being forcefully pushed open. Greg turned to see a window on the first story, which meant it was likely Sherlock’s. He was proved right when the younger paramedic stuck his head out through the window.

“Sir? I need your help bringing him down to the ambulance.” The man shouted down to them, voice barely controlled with tension. “He’s barely conscious anymore.”

That was not a good turn of events. “Is the other man still up there with him? They were sitting on the sofa before.”

Above them in the window the paramedic gave him a look then turned to look back inside the room. “Er, he’s on the phone with someone, sir. Can’t hear what he’s talking about.”

Greg sighed and raised a hand to knead at his forehead. Definitely a government type, probably one of the higher-ups whose work was top secret. What had happened to Sherlock being a priority?

He turned a little to address the paramedic standing next to him. “You should probably go and help your man. I don’t think the other man up there will be very helpful.”

“On my way,” the senior paramedic said then started walking away towards the front doors. In the window the other paramedic withdrew out of sight back into the room.

Greg stood on the pavement for what felt like ages as seconds, minutes, slowly ticked by. He resisted the urge to start pacing back and forth to just be doing something. He also wanted to run upstairs and into the room where Sherlock was currently unconscious and do something to help, but the more logical part of his brain told him he’d just be in the way and he should let the paramedics do their job.

So he was stuck out here on the pavement, waiting impatiently for the paramedics to come down with Sherlock. Or for any signal from upstairs that something had gone wrong. He was used to long nights of casework, and waiting for something to happen or another clue or lead to be unearthed. That was part of the job. But Sherlock was more than personal business.

Greg stayed where he was on the pavement, caught between the front door to the building and the ambulance. Trapped. And pulled in two directions.

Then finally, before he could give in and rush the doors Greg heard the front door to the building open again. He turned to see it swing open on itself, and then he took a step forward as the first paramedic, Jones, stepped out onto the front step.

It was when he saw a pale arm slung over Jones’ shoulder that Greg nearly broke into a run, especially when the arm proved to be attached to Sherlock. The two paramedics were managing to keep Sherlock upright between them, taking all of the boy’s mostly unconscious weight. Sherlock’s head had lolled forward onto his chest and his bare feet were dragging along the dirty ground.

“How is he?” Greg asked sharply, reaching out a hand to brush the curls away from Sherlock’s face to try and see him better. His bare skin was clammy and cold to the touch, and Greg would swear he looked even paler now.

Sherlock made some noise that could have been an attempt at speaking, but Jones spoke over him. “Not well, sir. We need to get him to hospital right away.”

“Right, yes,” Greg said, taking his hand away and stepped back out of their way. “Carry on.”

“Yes, sir,” said the younger paramedic. He wrapped his arm more tightly around Sherlock then shared a look with the other paramedic. It made Greg think they were more worried about Sherlock than they’d let on.

Together the two paramedics stepped away from the front step and started walking along the pavement towards the ambulance, Sherlock hanging between them.

The front door opened again behind Greg and he turned around to look, just in time to see ‘My’ step out holding another mobile in his hand. Greg wondered where he’d gotten it and also how many extras he carried with him just in case.

“Thank you for your help tonight, Detective Inspector. It is greatly appreciated.” ‘My’ told him, sounding surprisingly honest for a government worker. At least in Greg’s experience. He slid the mobile back into one of his pockets then pressed a hand over it, just to check.

The man stepped off down onto the pavement and began walking with quick steps after the paramedics. “One moment please, if you would.”

On Sherlock’s right Jones stopped first and turned to look back over Sherlock’s shoulder. “We are in a bit of a hurry,” he said, eying ‘My’s’ clothes and the jacket draped carefully over his arm.

“I’m well aware,” ‘My’ answered in a clipped voice. It was eerily similar to Sherlock’s response to statements that were, in his opinion, idiotically obvious. “However, I have some information you’ll need.”

Jones’ expression changed to one that was more politely curious. “And what would that be, sir?”

The higher-than-thou down the nose stare for common mortals was also eerily similar to what Greg had seen from Sherlock. ‘My’ slid a hand into his pocket and drew out off-white, thin, business card. “I’ve spoken to the attending A&E physician. When you arrive give her this; she’s promised to make sure Sherlock will get exactly what he needs.” ‘My’ handed over the business card to the paramedic who, to his credit, took it after only a slight hesitation.

Jones tucked it into a hidden pocket in his uniform then shifted to take more of Sherlock’s weight. “Yes, sir. I’ll do that.”

The two paramedics managed to get Sherlock the rest of the way to the ambulance without any more delays. Even with Sherlock mostly unconscious working together they helped him up into the ambulance with no difficulties.

Greg and My followed after them to the back of the ambulance then hovered on the pavement just outside. A few sneaky glances to the side at My proved he wasn’t as calm as he seemed to be trying hard to appear. His eyes were carefully tracking the paramedics every movement.

The paramedics settled Sherlock on the stretcher inside and called out checks to each other. Then finally Jones reappeared on the back step of the ambulance and easily stepped down onto the street.

As he reached out to close and latch the door, ‘My’ spoke yet again. “One more thing, please.”

The paramedic seemed to be making an effort to keep his patience. “And what would that be, sir?” He asked, his hand still curled around the handle of the door.

Greg’s brows jumped upward when My turned to look at him. “I believe the Detective Inspector would benefit from some plasters from your first aid kit,” he suggested, pale eyes lighting on certain areas of Greg’s face. Ones that Greg realized still stung slightly now his attention was drawn to them.

“Right,” Jones the paramedic said, while looking between Greg and My in a way that was completely unnecessary.

Before Greg could call him on it, Jones pulled the door open again and reached inside. A few seconds later he fetched out a first aid kit, holding it by the handle.

Jones glanced quickly at Greg before opening the kit and taking out half dozen or so plasters. “Will these be enough?” He asked with a faint smile, holding them out to My.

“I believe so,” My answered, taking them carefully from the paramedic. “Thank you.”

Jones closed the kit and set it back inside the ambulance, swinging the door closed and latched it pointedly. “Don’t worry, he’s in good hands,” he said quietly, nodding at the ambulance.

Then Jones knocked twice on the back door and walked around to the driver’s side. He opened the door, got in, and a few seconds later the ambulance was driving off with the siren and lights flashing.

Greg wasn’t sure how long he and My stood there watching after the ambulance. The street was almost completely quiet, even at this late hour, and the building behind them remained quiet and dark. It felt almost strangely deserted.

My suddenly spoke into the silence, starting Greg. “We should go to your car, Detective Inspector. You’ll have to sit down while I apply these plasters.”

“I’m fine,” Greg protested, but he was so tired that there wasn’t much he could do as the other man led him over to his car. It was strange that My knew which car was his, even though there weren’t many others on the street, since Greg hadn’t pointed it out. But he’d think about that later, when his brain had gotten sleep and started working again.

Now Greg slid a hand into one of his pockets to pull out his car keys. It was simple enough to press the button to unlock the doors. When they finally stopped next to the driver's side door, Greg shuffling along, My helpfully opened the door for him. For his own respect Greg managed to more or less settle himself onto the edge of the driver's seat facing the street.

My stood in front of him on the pavement between Greg and the car door. He patiently peeled off the back to the first plaster, looking down at it with almost comical intense concentration. Then, holding the edges with just his fingertips in a way that spoke of practice, My reached out and very, very carefully pressed it to the left side of Greg’s forehead. All the while avoiding meeting Greg’s eyes.

Greg tried not to feel too embarrassed about this treatment. Especially since he told himself it would be much harder trying to do this himself; and the cut already hurt less.

Eventually the drawn out silence, and feeling like a child again, got the better of him. “You don’t have to do this you know. Pretty sure they’ll heal up on their own.” Greg offered, looking away down the street.

“I know,” My acknowledged, placing the second plaster on Greg’s cheek. “But I don’t mind. After all, it’s Sherlock’s fault you’re injured. And he is my responsibility.”

“Is he? News to me,” Greg muttered under his breath. He closed his eyes as My placed a plaster right above his right eye.

He may have accidently said that out loud, and louder than he’d meant to. Greg yawned, feeling the plaster on his cheek pull a little. He didn’t need to look at his watch to know it was well past midnight.

My peeled the back off yet another plaster. Greg was sure at this rate he’d look terrible in the morning. “Sherlock refuses to admit it; and he enjoys fighting against or avoiding any protection I attempt to give him.”

He reached forward to press this plaster onto Greg’s chin, doing so very carefully. After a moment he continued, “My position offers me a certain amount of access to CCTV and security.” My shifted away from him, further back onto the safety of the pavement. “However all I can do is from behind a camera and over the phone. Sherlock, even in his current state, is more than capable of finding ways to avoid such tracking anywhere in the city.”

Greg huffed a laugh. “Now that doesn’t surprise me.” He lifted his head again with enormous effort in order to squint up at My. “Should I be worried that you have so much access to monitoring devices, and that you use it to track Sherlock of all people?”

The man finally looked down at him directly. He met Greg’s eyes, but he was frowning in such a way that even though it was faint, spoke volumes. “Of course I would be monitoring Sherlock. He of all people needs oversight.”

Greg found it difficult to argue with that. Even with My’s suspicious and questionable methods. So he said, “Well I’m grateful you were watching over him tonight. Otherwise,” Greg forced himself to look away, uncomfortable with even the idea of what he was about to say, “That ambulance would be heading somewhere else.”

My shifted on the pavement, his hand moving to rest on the pocket where he’d put his mobile. “Indeed,” he finally intoned, darkly.

That was enough of that, Greg decided. “Listen, I want to thank you for sending me here tonight. For letting me know Sherlock was in trouble.” He rubbed his hand over his leg. “I, wouldn’t have forgiven myself. If I hadn’t been here. So, thank you. For texting me to come and for watching over Sherlock. He needs someone looking after him.”

“Yes.” My replied simply. Then he cleared his throat forcefully. “There’s no need to thank me, Detective Inspector. Your being here was very helpful. And needed.”

“Glad to be helpful,” Greg said, only half-joking. He glanced at the few remaining plasters in My’s hand then rubbed a hand over his cheek. “I didn’t expect to be injured, but at least they aren’t really harmful.”

My’s eyes flickered over Greg’s face just briefly before he looked down at the plasters he was still holding. “You should take these,” he suggested, holding them out to Greg. “Those cuts may reopen, and need looking after.”

Greg lifted a hand and took the plasters from the other man without touching him. When he did My quickly drew his hand back and hid it in his pocket instead. “Thank you,” Greg said, putting the plasters in one of his pockets.

My nodded distantly, looking like his mind was already somewhere else. He straightened harshly, as if pulling on another persona. One of the powerful, haughty, government types Greg was used to butting heads with.

“I trust you’ll be able to make it home safely on your own?” My asked distantly, as if he didn’t really care about the answer. Even if Greg was sure he did. “Despite your injuries.”

“I’ll be fine, I’ve gotten home safe in much worse conditions than this,” Greg said, swinging his legs inside the car and settling back into the seat. He dug his keys out and started the engine.

My stepped back again as if to put more distance between himself and Greg. But he didn’t start walking away. So before Greg pulled the door closed and drove off, he turned to My and requested, “Keep me updated about Sherlock. I want to know how he is.”

“Of course,” My agreed with a solemn nod. “I have your number.”

“Yes, you do.” Greg decided that was all he could do and hoped the man would follow through on his agreement. 

“Good night,” he said in place of good-bye and pulled the door closed.

Greg left My behind standing on the pavement and headed in the direction of his flat as fast as he dared. Strangely all the traffic lights he passed turned green, making his journey much easier and shorter than he’d expected.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Two murders, one suicide, one staged suicide, and a robbery later, Greg still hadn’t heard from or seen Sherlock Holmes again.

The cases he’d caught had taken priority, of course. But Greg found himself watching out for Sherlock at crime scenes. And he also caught himself trying to imitate Sherlock’s method of thinking and looking at things whenever he was stuck or lost for the next step in the process. Most times it didn’t work. But sometimes, even when police work was involved, the more unconventional methods worked better.

But Sherlock never turned up anywhere. Not at the Yard, not at crime scenes, not even at Greg’s flat. There was no sign of him anywhere. Or the mysterious My Greg had last seen with him. It was as if Sherlock had disappeared back into the shadows he’d come from; and just like that everything had reverted back to normality.

If he didn’t have physical evidence from his mobile and crime scenes notes, Greg would wonder if he’d even imagined Sherlock. There had been a long run of sleepless nights and caffeinated beverages consumed around that time.

He’d just wrapped another case that had gone from bad to worse to frying pan to fire awful. Greg was almost certain he’d set a new Yard record for coffee consumption and lack of sleep. So, he could probably be forgiven for not noticing the mysterious black car with tinted windows sitting at the curb in front of the Yard. And for not thinking that it could be for him when he did notice but then dismissed it.

Greg turned towards the nearest major intersection and began walking slowly, using the constant and mindless motion to clear from his mind everything he’d experienced and went through over the drawn out time of the case.

He didn’t walk around London often, there was a reason he used and drove his own police-sanctioned vehicle. The street Greg was walking along was typically a busy main thoroughfare, but at this time of day cars sped past next to him only every so often.

Then the black car with tinted windows started driving slowly down the street keeping pace with him in the same direction, and Greg started worrying a little.

He sped up his pace until he was speed walking along the pavement. There weren’t many other pedestrians, but Greg did draw some odd looks from the few there were. And still the black car continued following him and even sped up to keep pace with him.

This went on for another block and a half from the Yard as Greg continued speed walking, his jaw set as he determinedly didn’t look at the car. The car still stayed beside him the entire time.

At this point Greg began scanning the street ahead of him and any nearby alleys for places he could duck into to get away from the car and whoever was inside.

He heard the quiet whir of a car door window and a woman’s voice spoke from inside the car. It was soft, but also threatening. “Join us in the car, DI. There’s no need for this.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’d rather not,” Greg answered as calmly as he could, still walking and not turning his head to look at the car.

The traffic light ahead at the next intersection turned green so Greg started walking even faster, hoping to make it across before it turned again.

But the car sped up as well, moving faster again to stay next to him. After a few more steps the woman spoke again. “Detective Inspector, please stop walking and get inside the car. There isn’t anything that will make me go away. You may as well come now.”

Greg finally glanced over to the car, but not through the window at the woman. Only a few yards ahead of him the light started flashing and counting down. He was running out of time.

“Since you knew where to find me, and you’ve called me by my title, you’re aware I’m a police officer,” Greg said to the car conversationally in one of his best official police voices. “So you might want to reconsider threatening me.”

The woman laughed quietly, and instead of being unsettling it was actually comforting a little. “I’m not threatening you, officer. I only want you to join us in the car.”

He was nearly to the intersection when the light turned yellow, and finally red. So he’d lost his chance to catch the car at the light without getting stuck himself. Next to him the car quickly drew to a halt as the light turned, coming to a sudden stop.

The traffic light in the other direction turned green now, and the one car that had been sitting waiting for the light sped through the intersection and down the street.

Greg glanced at the car following him and at the light, which was still green. He weighed his options then decided barely a moment later that anything was worth getting away from the car. Judging by the timing of the light he still had enough time to make it across.

He took a step out into the street and into the crosswalk, walking faster than he typically did to put distance between him and the car and to make the light. Greg was a few steps off the curb, ignoring everything else, when the car he was trying to avoid suddenly jerked forward into the crosswalk exactly where he was walking.

The grate and front of the car hit his legs and right by his knees, knocking him over. Not into the street, which would probably have hurt less, but over the hood of the car. It wasn’t the first time he’d had a battle with the front part of a car, so Greg knew to brace himself for impact and to push himself through rolling over the hood.

When he did fall onto the hard, unforgiving ground of the street, he was luckily able to put his hands out to somewhat protect himself. But his entire body still felt like one large bruise. He knew he’d feel it all over later, especially in his knees and arms. Greg was not as young as he used to be to be able to take impact like this.

There were ringing noises in his ears, or maybe he had become temporarily deaf. Above him beyond the grate of the car Greg saw the drivers side door open and a young, beautiful woman in a well-fitting dress step out. Her mouth was moving, but Greg still couldn’t hear so he could only guess she was talking to someone. In the meantime Greg’s eyes fell below the car door to discover she was wearing high heels. Which probably hadn’t helped in driving the car.

On the other side of the car the back door opened and someone else stepped out. Greg hadn’t even realized there was another person in the car; and here he was still lying on the ground, which was completely undignified for an experienced Detective Inspector with the Yard.

Greg struggled upright into a mostly sitting position, ignoring the insistent aching in all of his joints and the coldness of the ground seeping into his clothes. His hearing had started to come back just in time to hear shoes walking towards him on the street.

Greg looked up in that direction, grateful for the dim light of the evening sky, to see a strangely familiar man standing by the front wheel of the car. Greg couldn’t place him exactly; he saw a lot of people in his line of work. But Greg knew he knew him.

So Greg quickly scrambled to his feet, ignoring the aches and pains. He turned to face the man, a little wary. “Hello,” Greg greeted. He glanced to the other side of the car at the woman, but she seemed transfixed by something on her mobile.

“Hello Detective Inspector.” The man greeted as he pushed the door closed after him. Greg blinked at the three-piece suit this revealed, and was surprised again when the man started walking towards him. “Are you alright? I’m afraid my assistant misunderstood my urgency to get your attention.” He looked over at the young woman to treat her to a deep frown. “It was not my intention to injure you.”

Between the young woman’s well-fitting dress and the man’s three-piece-suit, Greg felt just a little self-conscious in his typical office outfit of trousers and a suit jacket that he’d been wearing for the last few days. He’d changed his shirt more recently, but they were all horribly wrinkled to start with and his altercation with the car had just made it worse. At this point it was all probably a lost cause.

Greg still attempted to brush dirt and gravel off his jacket and trousers. “What exactly was your intention then? Something less harmful than running me over with your car I hope?”

The man visibly winced at the suggestion and stopped near the headlight a foot or so away from Greg. “Of course, Detective Inspector,” he said, sounding irritated by the idea. “I only wish to talk with you.”

“Oh.” Greg said quietly. Now the man was closer to him, enough for Greg to get a good look at him, and his hearing had fixed itself so he could hear the man’s voice clearly, it took only a few seconds for the recognition to finally kick in.

“You’re My!” Greg blinked, surprised that the man had so suddenly reappeared, and that he had decided to try and run Greg over. He was better dressed this time and the dimming light didn’t help Greg’s eyesight, but Greg wouldn’t soon forget that voice and profile. 

“You were at Sherlock’s that night.” Greg narrowed his eyes as he took a step closer and added, “And you were supposed to keep me updated about Sherlock. How is he?”

The other man cleared his throat and looked away from Greg. “Mycroft, please Detective Inspector. I happen to despise that nickname.”

By the driver's door the young woman made an odd noise, but when Greg looked at her expression was perfectly blank.

“Sorry, Mycroft,” Greg corrected, having felt the same way when people insisted calling him ‘Gregory.’ Then he wondered just what kind of name ‘Mycroft’ was and what kind of people would name their child that.

“I would feel more comfortable if we spoke in the car,” Mycroft requested, gesturing at the car behind them. “After you, Detective Inspector.”

Greg eyed the vehicle warily, but decided that Mycroft wasn’t really a threat. And even though his… assistant… driver… had nearly run him over, she probably wasn’t one either. “All right,” he agreed and walked around the car to the back side door. Politely Mycroft stepped out of his way and then actually opened the door for him, something Greg had only experienced one other time.

It felt ridiculous not opening his own door and riding in the backseat of a car like this. But Greg slid onto the seat then moved over to give Mycroft room to sit.

In the front of the car the driver's door opened and the young woman appeared to fold herself into the driver's seat. She still had her mobile in her hand, and even as she closed the door and started the engine, she didn’t let go of it.

Mycroft joined Greg in the back seat, settling at the very opposite side of it. As far away from Greg as possible he noticed. The door was pulled closed, and Mycroft raised his voice slightly to call to the front, “Time to leave, Anthea.”

“Anthea?” Greg repeated without meaning to say anything. Maybe being around Mycroft you just decided to change your name to a more pretentious one.

Mycroft treated him to a look that just consisted of a raised eyebrow. But he leaned forward slightly in his seat and turned to look directly at Greg. “If you would give Anthea your address, we can drive you home.” He pressed his lips together into a thin line. “It’s the least we-I- can do after nearly running you over.”

“You didn’t run me over, I’m fine. No harm done.” Greg reassured Mycroft, wanting to reach out a hand but didn’t. He glanced towards Anthea in the front seat and added, “But I don’t mind a free ride home. I won’t even press charges.”

Mycroft made a noise that Greg suspected might actually be a laugh. So Greg smiled at him carefully before moving to the edge of his seat and told Anthea his address.

In the rearview mirror Greg saw Anthea nod before the car began pulling out into traffic and driving down the street. For nearly a block he and Mycroft sat in silence together in the back seat staring determined forward.

Two traffic lights later Greg finally decided to break the silence. “So how is he, Sherlock, I mean.”

Mycroft made that same strange amused noise and slid a hand into his pocket. “He is in a much more improved condition than you saw him last. My contact in the facility has told me that while Sherlock is very unhappy and far from an ideal patient, Sherlock has successfully completed treatment. He has gone through the appropriate withdrawal.”

Greg tried very hard not to gape open mouthed at the other man; but he felt somewhat blindsided. “That’s where he’s been? Rehab? And you didn’t think to let me know?”

Mycroft frowned back at him looking a little bewildered. “I expected you to be happy, seeing as this is good news.”

“Yes, I am happy that Sherlock’s managed to complete his rehab treatment.” Greg quickly agreed since he didn’t want Mycroft to wrongly get the idea that he didn’t care about Sherlock. “The boy deserves better than that. He deserves a second, or third chance. Even I can tell he has a lot of potential.”

“Exactly, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft agreed looking appeased by Greg’s declaration. “Which I why I would like to-”

“But you should have told me where he was and how he was earlier than this. You said you would,” Greg quickly interrupted, his tone sharp with anger. “I’ve been worrying about that boy almost constantly. Hoping he wasn’t laying in a drain somewhere, or that something just as bad had happened to him. That kind of worrying tends to happen when I haven’t seen him since that night I found you with him barely conscious in his flat. He hasn’t even been at crime scenes or at the Yard, where he used to be a constant shadow. As far as I could tell he just disappeared.”

Mycroft pulled a mobile from his pocket and quickly unlocked it. “I appreciate your concern for Sherlock, Detective Inspector. I’m grateful someone like you cares about him. And I apologize that I didn’t contact you earlier.”

After taking a moment for Mycroft to continue, Greg ventured, “And you also apologize for following me from my work in a mysterious black car without telling me who you were?”

Mycroft looked like he didn’t know what to say, so he settled for focusing on what he was doing with his phone. “Er, yes. I suppose that wasn’t my best idea for contacting you.”

Greg laughed sharply. “No, it really wasn’t. Luckily for you I’m off-duty and not currently carrying.”

Mycroft continued focusing only on his phone, so Greg looked closer at him. Was he embarrassed? It hadn’t been the best plan, especially for following a police officer. Greg’s days weren’t usually so exciting.

So Greg offered, “You can just call me Lestrade. I’m off duty; and the title is hard to use in everyday conversation.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft told him, sounding confused by the offer but chose to accept it graciously anyways. He cleared his throat. “Sherlock is doing well. He’ll be released any day now.”

Mycroft raised his phone to turn the screen towards Greg. “Several days ago he was given back his mobile, and since then he’s entertained himself by sending me… colorful texts.”

“‘Colorful texts’?” Greg repeated, glancing down at the phone. He’d heard some of Sherlock’s more colorful insults at crime scenes, so he couldn’t imagine what would be called colorful texts.

“Yes.” Mycroft confirmed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already ostracized the entire staff at the facility. He needs someone to rant to.”

“And he picked you?” Greg asked, eyebrows continuing to jump upward as he read over the texts from Sherlock on the screen. In reality they were amazingly colorful. He wasn’t sure someone from Sherlock’s background should even know some of those phrases.

“He does blame me for putting him in the facility, and rightly so.” Mycroft took the mobile back from Greg and locked it before returning it to his pocket again. “However, I would also like to think that Sherlock has come to understand that I did it for his own good. He was unable to complete withdrawal successfully on his own, so obviously the facility was the last option.”

Greg could easily remember the night he’d rushed into Sherlock’s flat to find Mycroft comforting a barely conscious Sherlock. And the many times Sherlock had appeared at crime scenes obviously high but demanding to help and for Greg to listen. If Mycroft had felt anywhere near or even more helpless as Greg then he’d been right to put Sherlock in a facility that could help him.

“You did what you thought was right,” Greg said kindly, meeting the man’s gaze firmly. “And it sounds like it was best after all. For Sherlock.”

The hand resting on his left leg slowly tightened into a fist. After a long pause Mycroft said quietly, “I only hope it finally takes this time; and Sherlock manages to permanently stay clean. He cannot continue down this path.”

“He won’t, he’ll stay clean.” Greg agreed. He took a chance and rested his hand on the seat between them. “After all, now he has both of us to watch his back and look after him. There’s no reason for him to fail again.”

Mycroft glanced down at Greg’s hand, his expression oddly unreadable. “To that end, Detective Inspector,” he said, dragging his eyes back up to Greg’s face. “There is something I would to ask of you. A favor of sorts, to help ensure Sherlock’s well being. Seeing as you seem very invested on his behalf.”

The man was treading awfully close to spiraling into political double-talk, which always gave Greg a headache. So he decided to cut Mycroft off first. “What do you think I can offer you?” Greg asked confused and maybe a little surprised. Compared to Mycroft’s high government position he was just a lowly Detective Inspector, a cog in the wheel. But since this was Sherlock they were discussing…

“You are in a very unique position, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft told him with a faint twitch of his mouth. “One that could be of potentially infinite use to Sherlock. If the two of you choose to work together.”

“‘Work. Together.’” Greg repeated, a little lost. “How exactly would we be working together?”

“You’ve already encountered Sherlock several times at your crime scenes,” Mycroft stated matter of factly, as they were both were well aware of Sherlock’s tendency to pop up unannounced at Yard crime scenes. “My hope is to make Sherlock’s presence more permanent. As well as to expand his role solving the cases with which he’s involved.”

Greg blinked slowly; absently behind Mycroft through the window he noticed they were close to his flat now. “So, what? You want Sherlock to be actually involved with our cases?” 

It wasn’t actually the most ridiculous idea he’d ever heard. Despite his protests. “I can ask tomorrow about the possibility of having him brought in on cases, but don’t get too excited. There isn’t really a precedent for it. And of course he’d have to, improve his social skills,” Greg lay out, trying to balance sugarcoating with plain speaking.

Mycroft didn’t look discouraged at all. Instead he looked more thoughtful, in almost the same way Sherlock did when he was silently judging. “In fact I was picturing his role more as a consultant. Sherlock may not have any background as a detective; but he does enjoy solving mysteries and, under normal circumstances, has quite the mind for it.”

He leaned back in his seat while still remaining properly upright. “I am well aware you are an excellent detective, Lestrade. Your closing rate is much higher than other Detective Inspector’s, and you are well-respected.” Mycroft told him, as if Greg needed ego-stroking in order to accept the offer.

“Which is why I would like you to be the Detective Inspector Sherlock consults with at the Yard. He already respects you and you have already admitted you care about him.” Mycroft said calmly, laying out the offer like it wasn’t entirely unexpected. “Therefore I can already tell such an arrangement would be beneficial for both sides and widely successful.”

“Sherlock, consulting on cases with me, at the Yard,” Greg repeated slowly, as his mind fought to understand and absorb each part of that sentence. It wasn’t completely impossible, and it might actually end up being as positive an experience as Mycroft was suggesting. And Sherlock was brilliant; he’d helped successfully solve many cases already. It was just the idea of Sherlock at the Yard.

“You, do not seem as open to this idea as I expected,” Mycroft observed, watching his face carefully. He didn’t sound exactly disappointed, but Mycroft also didn’t look quite as hopeful as a few moments ago.

“It’s not that I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Greg quickly reassured, raising his hand. “I think Sherlock would be very helpful on cases, especially the strange ones we get that need that outside perspective. I already know none of my team thinks like he does. But I’m not sure exactly what the people actually in charge would think about my bringing in an outside consultant.”

Mycroft’s stiff, distant posture relaxed slightly, and he looked almost relieved. “If that is all you are worried about, Lestrade, then I can easily take care of that for you. All you need to concern yourself with is the idea of working with Sherlock on a regular basis.”

Greg laughed weakly, rubbing his hands together. “Right, well I’m sure I can learn to work with him. Granted he learns to behave himself, or at least tries to.”

Mycroft tilted his head a little to one side. “I promise he will.”

“Well,” Greg said and took a deep breath. “I’m willing to give it a try. I’d like to give Sherlock a chance, he’s obviously brilliant and has the mind for detective work.”

“Excellent,” Mycroft pronounced, just as the car came to a slow step on one side of the street. “I will be in touch with you then; I promise. Sherlock will be released soon and I’ll have him come visit you as soon as he is… presentable.”

Greg wondered at that specific word choice, but nodded in agreement. “I’ll wait for you to call. And I look forward to seeing Sherlock better.”

The driver's door opened and Greg turned his head to see Anthea climbing out. He shifted a little to look out the window next to him and saw his building just outside. “You really did drive me home,” Greg commented looking back to Mycroft.

“I said I would,” Mycroft reminded him with a faint smile. “I hope you are feeling better. You should take care of yourself; make sure there is no permanent damage. And,” he added, casting a glance over Greg’s wrinkled clothes, “Perhaps try and sleep. And eat something that doesn’t simply involve a microwave and hot water.”

The car door behind Greg opened and suddenly he could hear all the noise the car interior had muffled. “Like I said, I’ve had worse. You don’t have to worry about me, but I do appreciate it,”

“Detective Inspector,” the young woman’s voice said quietly from behind him.

Greg shifted on the car seat and regretfully climbed out of the backseat to step up onto the pavement, Anthea moving out of his way. Greg noticed she had her mobile in her hand again.

As Greg stood on the pavement, Mycroft spoke again from inside the car. “Lestrade, I just want to thank you again for choosing to give Sherlock a chance. I also want to thank you on his behalf, since I’m sure he will not. Especially given you know very well what he is like.”

Greg leaned down a little to look inside the car. “This might be speaking too soon, but you don’t have to thank me. It will be work.”

“I appreciate that, Lestrade, I hope Sherlock doesn’t end up changing your mind,” Mycroft said knowingly. Then, before Greg could respond, Anthea closed the car door.

Greg was left standing on the pavement waving at the back of the car as it drove off away from him.

__

Almost a month later Greg was sitting behind his desk attempting to work on writing up the report for his latest case when the pointedly closed door to his office suddenly flew open.

He jerked upright in his chair, the cup of coffee he had at hand almost tipping over to flood his keyboard. Greg cursed and quickly grabbed at the cup, moving it away from his computer.

When he finally looked up at his door to tell off whoever had decided to just barge in, the words died in his throat. There was a man standing there poised in the doorway, and it was almost recognizably Sherlock.

Except he looked so much better, healthier. His skin was a normal color with a healthy tinge to his cheeks, the strange blue-green eyes were pale and sharp in their focus on Greg, and his hair was styled to an inch of its life.

But he was also wearing a long, black wool coat that Greg couldn’t even pay for with an entire year's salary. And, Sherlock was grinning.

“Well, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Sherlock pronounced grandly, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. “Shall we get started?”

Greg barely resisted the urge to bang his head against his desk. He was doomed.


	3. Chapter 3

3\. 

Somehow Greg managed to survive working with Sherlock, and the following nearly four years flew by. Well, maybe not flew by but they passed without any major mishaps.

Sherlock more or less behaved himself while working with Greg and his team at the Yard; he helped them close cases and lock up criminals at an even higher rate than before. He’d never gotten into the habit of reining in his ego or not proclaiming his genius; which led to some tension between Greg’s team and Sherlock. But so far it hadn’t gone beyond words and as the team leader Greg was watching the situation closely.

To Greg’s surprise, the interview in the mysterious black car hadn’t been the last time he saw Mycroft. Greg had mostly expected not to see Mycroft again once he agreed to involve Sherlock on cases on a regular basis and become someone else to look out for Sherlock. After all why would someone like Mycroft want to spend time with him talking about topics that weren’t related to Sherlock? They didn’t really have anything else in common.

Yet Greg saw Mycroft several more times, and spoke with him even more often over the phone. He mostly saw Mycroft in a professional capacity at crime scenes or at the Yard. And sure sometimes Mycroft swept in to steal away cases under the guise of official classified government business. Or he withheld important supposedly classified information. But Greg understood that he was just doing what was necessary, and tried not to be bitter about it.

Limiting Mycroft’s sudden appearances at the Yard and crime scenes also cut down on the amount of familial sniping Greg was forced to endure between Sherlock and Mycroft. It was better for everyone’s health and sanity.

Hearing from Mycroft by somewhat frequent calls was more common. Most of the time they came from Mycroft, but once or twice Anthea was the one to call or text him. It didn’t take Greg long to realize that Mycroft did text, but was much more polite and stilted over the phone. Compared to Sherlock who insisted on solely texting unless you were in the same room as him and then he pestered you in person.

Everything seemed to be going well and they solved most of the cases they worked on. Except for a few cold cases Sherlock refused to discuss and was bitter about.

But then, the serial suicides started.

The first victim in October, Sir Jeffrey Patterson, started as a suspected suicide under mysterious circumstances. Everything about the case seemed strange, especially the motive for why he committed suicide. But Greg was determined for his team to solve it on their own, without Sherlock’s help.

Then a little more than a month later there was a second suspicious suicide. James Phillimore disappeared, then turned up again under just as suspicious circumstances as the first victim and was ruled a suicide. They didn’t officially tie the two suicides together, but both were considered suspicious.

Still, Greg refused to bring Sherlock in regardless of the boy’s pestering and insistence that they reopen the cases since they were extremely suspicious. The cases remained closed, and the public and Yard declared that London was safe again.

The quiet from the criminal classes and facade of public safety, and not dealing with Sherlock on a professional basis, lasted for almost two months.

Then in January Beth Davenport disappeared and was found alone under the same circumstances as the other two suspicious suicides. Which meant they had to officially declare the cases as possibly related, and personally meant Greg had to head a press conference to discuss the supposedly serial suicides with the press.

The press conference went as well as Greg expected; or in a word ‘disastrous.’ No thanks to Sherlock and his group texting the entire press group declaring what Greg was saying was “wrong!”

(And of course he had to lose his temper and finally get snippy in front of the Daily Mail.

Maybe after this they’d finally realize he wasn't professionally competent to deal with the press.) 

And he had really meant what he said to Sally. If he could figure out how Sherlock somehow had the ability to not only group text all the press in the room with him but to also watch the press conference when it was closed to the public, then he’d put a stop to it right away. He could only take one Holmes with the power to manipulate the CCTV and security devices.

So as soon as he was off-duty for the night Greg left the Yard and headed directly for the nearest local. He needed to drown his sorrows alone and away from the scene of his disaster.

Luckily it wasn't too crowded so he ordered right away and sat at the very end of the bar. He’d been here a few times before, so the bartender knew to mostly leave him alone.

That didn't mean the few other patrons did.

He was barely halfway through his first helping when one of the men sitting at a nearly table, who had been loudly listing off all that was wrong with the world for everyone to hear, decided to grace Greg with his attention. Personally Greg didn't think this was at all fair since he’d already had a shit day and he hadn't even been paying attention to the man's ranting. He just wanted a drink.

But this just went right along with the kind of day he was having.

“Hey, aren't you that detective that's been in the papers?” The man’s heavily alcohol lubricated voice asked, loud enough he sounded like he was standing right next to Greg.

Greg didn't answer or turn his head. He just hunched over and tried to disappear into his glass.

“You are, aren't you? Not a very good one though are you? Pretty worthless not being able to nab the one who's done it. They should've just given you the shove and replaced you with someone who can actually do the job. Who knows what's what.”

From the worried look the bartender was giving him Greg suspected he wasn't managing his temper as well as he thought. Or maybe the man was just worried about the glass breaking under Greg’s hands.

Being heckled like this came with the job really, and Greg was mostly used to it by now. Able to brush it off. But first the press had managed to push all his buttons and make him snap, and now this obnoxious drunkard was calling him out.

Greg tried to decide between just leaving the rest of his drink and going elsewhere so he wouldn't have to deal with the man, or waiting and finishing his drink and hoping he wouldn't be driven to violence.

Then the man spoke again and the decision quickly fled out the window.

“Can’t even do your job. An important bloke decides to off himself and you lot get all up in arms about him dying. Then a kid goes missing and turns up dead and there’s barely a stir. Can see where your loyalties and priorities lie there. And I’m not impressed one bit. None of you care about the little people. We die and no one blinks an eye.”

“So you better watch your back, detective. And think real hard next time about if you’re putting the real culprit behind bars or just someone who looks good there.”

Once it seemed like the man was finally done ranting, Greg took a long, measured drink of his beer. He’d probably need it to deal with this idiot, and because if he didn’t there was a good chance he’d just turn around and punch the man right in the nose.

So instead he took a long drink before setting it down on the bar. Then he finally turned around on his stool to look at the man.

He was pretty much the kind of man Greg expected, one who lived paycheck to paycheck and blamed the rich for his troubles while secretly envying them. Those who always got a bit too outspoken when they’d had too many.

“Listen, I understand you’re not happy about people like you being treated unfairly compared to those with money,” Greg started off, keeping his voice low and appeasing. He’d dealt with plenty of drunks before, but they all had different triggers that needed to be avoided. If he didn’t want to make thing worse. 

“I understand that, and I don’t think it’s fair either. But all detectives like me are trying to do is solve cases and put the right person behind bars. Sometimes, that doesn’t always happen. But that doesn’t mean you have to go around complaining about everything you don’t like, or threatening us. That doesn’t help anything.”

Apparently the careful, appeasing words Greg had chosen weren’t the right ones. The man’s eyes narrowed to furious slits, and his already reddish face became even more punch-colored. “Don’t you talk down to me like I’m some kind of street rat. You don’t understand anything about me detective,” the man shouted furiously, hissing the title. “Nothing I can do helps. People like you never listen. And you never help.”

“Well if you won’t listen then there isn’t any way I can help you now either,” Greg said, sliding off the stool and to his feet. He was only a little unstable but he could still walk. “I’ll try and do my job, you try and do yours.”

Greg took his wallet out of his pocket and took out the appropriate change for his drink. He set it on the bar behind him then started walking towards the door.

It took the man a few seconds but eventually he realized Greg was trying to leave. That was about the same time Greg was passing the table where he had been sitting.

“Hey, don’t walk away from me. I’m not done with you!” The man shouted at Greg’s back.

In the time Greg took a few steps past the table the man turned and grabbed the closest pint glass, which still had some beer, still left in it. Even in his inebriated state the man managed to pick up the pint glass and throw it roughly in Greg’s direction.

The shout had been enough of a warning that Greg managed to avoid getting hit by the pint glass, which probably wouldn’t have done much damage. But he wasn’t able to avoid being drenched by the rest of the liquid in the glass as it passed overhead. Suddenly there was warm, sticky liquid dripping down from the top of his head into his hair and onto his face.

Greg tried to wipe what he could out of his eyes and off his face with the sleeve of his jacket, which was why he missed the man’s fist coming directly at him. Pain blossomed on the left side of his face, his cheek felt like it was on fire, and he was stumbling backward across the wooden alcohol-stained floor.

Greg clutched at his injured cheek with one hand while he reached behind him with his other hand for anything to stop himself from falling. Then, suddenly, he was hanging, supported, in mid-air; strong hands gripping his arms.

Greg tilted his head up to see the last person he’d expect to see in a place like this. Mycroft Holmes, dressed in his typical three-piece-suit with a brolly hanging over one arm, managing to keep Greg upright with the hands currently wrapped around Greg’s arms.

For a few seconds all Greg could manage to do was gape up at Mycroft. Then finally he managed, “My-Mycroft.”

“Hello Lestrade,” Mycroft greeted, still holding onto him. Mycroft looked down at Greg to treat him with a warm smile as if this was a perfectly normal place to see each other and position to be in. Then after a pause he helped Greg upright and back onto his feet again, before finally letting go of him.

Once Greg was standing on his own Mycroft turned his head to pierce the man who had been harassing Greg with a cold, hostile look. “Well,” he said, keeping his gaze locked on the man while he tugged the pocket square from his suit pocket. “I believe that was completely unnecessary.”

“It was!” The man protested, pointing a shaking hand at Greg. “He provoked me! Should have heard the things he said!”

“Nothing near as provoking as what you were saying, I imagine,” Mycroft returned evenly. He held the pocket square out to Greg, who just blinked at it.

“You can use this to clean yourself up, Lestrade,” Mycroft explained, dangling it in front of Greg. “I can’t imagine you enjoy dripping with beer.”

“No, not really,” Greg said taking the pocket square out of Mycroft’s hands. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Mycroft replied. 

He returned his attention to the man who was now spluttering wordlessly at them as his face grew an even redder color. “I understand that you have many grievances with the officers of the Yard, but using inebriation as an excuse to rant at and attack random people with whom you have no specific grievance is inexcusable. I also suspect that your manager would be very interested to know your current location since you typically are working at this hour.”

Mycroft held up a hand to try and ward off the man’s now even more insistent sputtering. In the meantime while Mycroft was defending him Greg had managed to get most of the sticky, pungent substance off his face. 

“It is not very responsible behavior of you to skip work to come and drink yourself into such a state. Especially now that you are so dependent on the money you earn since yours is the only income now your wife has left you. If you continue this behavior how much longer do you expect to have a job or a place to live? Your friends and coworkers already have so little respect for you, and your manager is already considering letting you go.” Mycroft lifted the umbrella off his arm and set the very tip of it on the floor, resting his hands on the handle.

He shifted into his trademark stance that seemed to intimidate everyone but Sherlock and Greg. His hand tightened on the handle of his umbrella, and he raised one imperious eyebrow at the man. “How much are you willing to risk?”

The man had gone very pale all of a sudden, and he was glancing desperately around the room at anything but Greg or Mycroft. “I, I- I’m not! You can’t know all of that! It’s not true!”

Mycroft’s smile was dangerously sharp, his gaze still cold as he replied simply, “I’d recommend you leave now.”

The man stumbled into chairs and nearly ran into a few tables as he haphazardly made his way towards the front door. He didn’t seem to look where he was going as he desperately tried to escape from Mycroft and Greg.

Once the man pushed through the front door, after trying a few times to pull it instead, Greg couldn’t hold in his laughter any longer.

He clutched the now beer-stained pocket-square in his hand as he shook with laughter, the alcohol, the disastrous press conference, and the unexpected altercation with a raving drunkard all in one day only trumped by the fact that he’d just witnessed Mycroft Holmes not only defending his honor but also scaring off the person who’d been harassing him.

Sometime while he was laughing Mycroft had turned to face him, looking worried (probably about his sanity). The dangerous, cold, powerful man from just a few seconds ago had completely disappeared.

“Lestrade, are you alright?” Mycroft asked, carefully taking the pocket square out of Greg’s hand. “I didn’t think he’d hit you so hard.”

“I’m fine,” Greg gasped, getting his laughter under control. ”I just,” he said, straightening again. “That was amazing, thank you for all of that.”

“It was no problem at all,” Mycroft replied politely, as if it had been nothing. He idly spun his umbrella a little before replacing it on his arm.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” Greg said, and then realized he needed to explain. “I mean, I thought Sherlock was the only one who could do deductions.”

Mycroft smirked a little, and started walking towards the bar. “Who do you think taught him? He didn’t learn the skill on his own.”

The barkeeper, who had been strangely silent and absent during the altercation, looked up when Mycroft stopped next to the bar. “Can I help you?” He asked blandly.

“Some ice, if you would, for the Detective Inspector’s injury,” Mycroft requested, glancing over to Greg who had followed him over curiously.

The barkeeper’s eyes had widened a little at the title, which was likely why Mycroft had used it. “Right away, sir,” he said before rushing off to find ice.

After the man had wandered away and a few silent seconds had gone by, Greg decided to speak up again. “So you taught Sherlock how to deduce?” An idea popped into his head and he couldn’t help but ask, “Does that mean you’re better at it than him?”

That superior look was going to permanently stick itself on Mycroft's face if Greg kept bringing up Sherlock. Which he hadn't really meant to do, it was just that Sherlock was the only other person Greg knew who could deduce people like that. And Mycroft had as good as said it himself without actually saying it in that way he had.

“Obviously, all though Sherlock will fiercely deny it if you ask him. He does so enjoy believing he’s the best at everything; he was always so competitive.” Mycroft replied confidently, in nearly the same tone Sherlock would use whenever he wanted to tout his brilliance.

God they were so alike sometimes. But Greg knew better than to say that aloud.

“Well I'm grateful he decided to make his own job out of it, I can't even imagine him in a government position like yours.” Greg tried to picture that for a second but it seemed to break his brain. It was just so much not Sherlock. “So at least there's no competition there. And he's endlessly helpful to the Yard, even if he manages to piss off everyone nearby in a short time.”

Mycroft sighed quietly, the air going out of him. It was replaced by a softer expression, one Greg hadn't often seen since Sherlock had managed to get and remain clean. “Yes, sadly as skilled as Sherlock is at deducing people he never managed to learn the social skills and respect that should have gone along with it. He was always an infinitely curious boy, and I believed teaching him to deduce would help him to better manage the way he saw and interacted with the world.” His mouth pressed together into a tight line. “Unfortunately he didn't decide to use the skill as I expected.”

"So his choice is to help solve crimes and people's problems," Greg explained with only a hint of amusement. "And your decision is not only to run the government, but also to turn up and rescue Detective Inspectors from certain danger just at the right moment. Or to conflict injuries on them.”

“Only one Detective Inspector specifically, Lestrade. And the incident with the car was only the once. Today I just happened to be nearby and thought I would, look in on you.” Mycroft told him, meeting his eyes again. Greg would have believed Mycroft appearing at just the right second was a fluke, but he was doing that fussing thing with his umbrella again.

Greg laughed, finding it actually not that surprising Mycroft seemed to have a sense of humor. "So you either decide to rescue me like some damsel in distress, or somehow I manage to get hurt when you're around. Strange how that happens isn't it?"

Before Mycroft could deny that it wasn't strange at all, the barkeeper came back with a bag of ice wrapped in a towel. He walked towards them behind the bar then stopped and reached out across it, holding out the ice. "Here, sir. Sorry about all the trouble. Charlie usually just drinks himself unconscious, not normal for him to get physical."

Mycroft took the towel wrapped ice from the barkeeper before Greg could even take a step. He treated the man to an unimpressed look without saying a word, and Greg was happy to see the barkeeper looked appropriately flustered. Then Mycroft turned to abruptly press the ice against Greg's injured cheek.

Greg gasped at the cold, but after a few seconds it started to feel really nice. He raised his hand to hold the ice instead, but Mycroft moved his hand away first so Greg had to practically catch it.

Mycroft stood silently just watching him, waiting, as if they had all the time in the world. 

Greg's face was already starting to feel better; but between the already growing bruise and the stickiness from the beer he could still feel, Greg didn't feel like he was the best company. "Mycroft, I appreciate your coming to check up on me, but-"

"No need to worry, Lestrade. I am well aware you are no damsel in distress.” Mycroft smiled at him. “You don't need me to save you.”

“Right, you just happen to be in the same place.” Greg agreed dryly. His face was starting to go numb now, so Greg removed the ice and set it down on the bar.

There was a quiet chime from a phone, which after a second Mycroft drew from his pocket. The screen lit up when he pressed a key, and Mycroft was silent as he read whatever he saw.

He was actually smiling a little as he put the phone away again. Well not smiling but there was that mouth twitching tell again. “I’m afraid I have to return to the office, Lestrade. Politics do not subscribe to office hours. However, if you wouldn't protest, we would be willing to provide you with a ride home.”

“As long as you don't count it as rescuing me yet again,” Greg responded easily, barely having to consider. Getting a cab at this hour and fighting traffic would be too much of a hassle compared to riding with Mycroft in his car. Even with his injury he was nearly dead on his feet. “One question… Is this you offering or was it Anthea who told you to ask?”

Mycroft turned towards him, switching the umbrella to his other arm so he could lightly grip Greg’s elbow to steer him. “Believe it or not Lestrade, Anthea isn't always the one with good ideas.”

“Right, of course not.” Greg agreed, letting Mycroft lead him towards the door. “Just don't say anything about that damned press conference.”

“Of course not,” Mycroft reassured him as they continued to get closer to the door. “The press core is an unnecessary menace who should not be allowed to be in the same room as certain Detective Inspectors.”

He sounded so serious that Greg wondered if he should worry about the Daily Mail reporter suddenly disappearing before the next press conference. But then he realized that Mycroft was probably just being kind and really, it was part of his job; he needed to get used to sooner or later.

But Mycroft even making such a threat did somehow make him feel better.

~~

Something like 48 hours later, Greg was quickly realizing that now there was an entirely new menace he would be forced to face.

Sherlock Holmes swanning onto crime scenes or into the Yard and telling them how to do their jobs was bad enough. But now, he had John Watson with him. And it wasn't hard to figure out that now, after less than twenty-four hours together, the two came as a set.

Greg had suspected something when Sherlock turned up at a crime scene with the doctor in tow, the same man Greg had barely noticed at Baker Street. But then the man had continued to turn up wherever Sherlock was, following at his side. The two were at Baker Street together and Sherlock actually sought and listened to the other man’s opinion. Then minutes later John went off after Sherlock just as recklessly, leaving Greg to rush after both of them.

The final tipping point was at the chaotic crime scene of a mysterious shooting at the college. When Sherlock started to very thoroughly describe his rescuer- after Greg gave him a slight push first, showing off as he enjoyed doing. Then suddenly, wrapped in an alarmingly orange shock blanket, Sherlock started trailing off before finally coming to a bumbling stop and going silent.

It wasn’t the first, and wouldn’t be the last time; he worried about Sherlock on the boy’s behalf. But hearing Sherlock contradict himself then being told not to listen and to ignore him, made Greg momentarily question Sherlock’s sanity.

Greg watched as Sherlock started to walk away past the police cars and towards the police tape, and he finally noticed what Sherlock had apparently seen first. John Watson, standing behind the police tape with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket watching the chaos of a crime scene unfold around him.

Greg tore out the piece of paper in his notepad he’d been writing on and crumpled it up into a ball. As Sherlock passed underneath the police tape and caught up to John Watson, who was saying something to Sherlock and looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, Greg closed his notepad and tucked it back into his pocket. He could keep Sherlock and John’s secret, for now. After all there was no real evidence about the mysterious person who had saved Sherlock’s life.

Sherlock and John walked off from the crime scene; looking like best mates for just the few hours they’d known each other. Greg was about to turn away and start actually trying to take control of the crime scene, or track down Donovan for an update, when a certain black car with tinted windows pulled up a few yards in front of John and Sherlock.

Greg decided he could take a while longer, and dug a hand in his pocket to pull out his mobile. He checked the screen but there were no missed texts or calls; so Mycroft hadn’t warned him of his coming.

Watching whatever conversation was going on was nowhere near as entertaining as it would have been if Greg could actually hear what was being said. John Watson was alternating between being worried and defensive of Sherlock, who was all riled and hissing at his brother, while Mycroft remained his aloof, distant self. Then finally Sherlock turned and swept away, coat flaring. John Watson remained for a few extra seconds, now looking very uncomfortable with Anthea and Mycroft, before finally hurrying after Sherlock.

Greg waited for Mycroft and Anthea to get back into the car and drive away, but instead Mycroft stayed standing outside the car looking after Sherlock and John, and Anthea’s focus was entirely on the mobile that was always a constant presence in her hand. So Greg decided to risk going over, wondering if Mycroft had also come to see him but was still too… Holmesian… to say so.

He dodged a few officers, squeezed between police cars, and ducked under the tape, to finally walk up to Mycroft and Anthea. Neither of them acknowledged his presence, which wasn’t all that unusual, so Greg decided to open with, “I see you’ve met John Watson. Should I ask if you approve?”

“Actually, we’ve already met,” Mycroft finally said, tearing his eyes away from the disappearing figures of Sherlock and John Watson. “Anthea picked him up after Sherlock left him behind so we could have a brief chat.”

“Where you threatened or injured him in order to convince him to look after Sherlock for you?” Greg asked curiously. John Watson had managed to stand up to Sherlock’s acerbic tongue and pointed insults, but Mycroft’s brotherly concern was at an entirely different level. “Hope you didn’t try and run him over with a car, that’s so overdone.”

Mycroft smiled at that, which Greg prided himself on since Mycroft never seemed to smile very often. “No, there was no run-in with a car involved. He refused to accept any amount of money to share information about Sherlock with me, and he didn’t seem afraid even when I brought up his trust issues and the injuries that ended his time on the battlefield and brought him back to London.” Mycroft made a noise that could have been a laugh. “He even chided me for being as dramatic as Sherlock, indirectly of course.”

“So no threat of bodily harm necessary then,” Greg agreed. “That’s impressive, I’d think you’d be happy Sherlock found someone like that. It sounds like they’re perfect for each other.”

“We’ll see,” Mycroft mused. “Either he’ll make Sherlock better, or make him worse than ever. Time will tell.”

Greg thought of how Sherlock and John Watson had walked away from the crime scene just now, their heads close together and giggling. Of how John Watson’s limp and cane from hours ago seemed to have just disappeared. And of how Sherlock had practically contradicted and fell over himself trying to cover up John was the one who had shot the cabbie to save Sherlock’s life. 

“I’ll keep an eye on them,” Greg offered. “I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot more of them at crime scenes. And the Yard.”

Mycroft must have able to read some of his thoughts since what he said next, sounding very sincere, was, “Yes Lestrade, we should be congratulating you on closing yet another case. Especially such a challenging one.”

“Oh stuff it,” Greg replied quickly without any real heat. “You know we never would’ve worked it out without Sherlock. Everyone else thought they were all just strangely similar suicides. We didn’t realize there was someone behind it.”

“I’m sure you would have come to the realization eventually, Lestrade,” Mycroft said sounding like he was at least trying to be reassuring. Greg knew he was one of the best at the Yard, but there were many times Sherlock and a few times Mycroft made him feel like an idiot. “And now you don’t need to worry about the press, or about these suicides continuing. London is safe.”

“For now,” Greg sighed, rubbing his forehead. All of a sudden he was feeling every minute of the caffeine-fueled hours and sleepless nights of this case. “One less murderous cabbie on the streets is good I suppose.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed, his expression softening a little at the mess Greg felt he must look like now. “Anthea has something for you, I imagine it may help.”

“What?” Greg asked, looking over to Anthea who seemed to have finally torn herself away from her mobile. She was holding out a small plastic Tesco’s bag and offering him a small smile.

“Nothing to worry about, Detective Inspector,” Anthea told him, a gleam in her eye as she handed over the bag. “We just made a quick stop on our way here. And yes, I was the one who went in to do the shopping.”

“Er, thanks,” Greg said because that was really all he could manage to say as he took the bag. He opened it and glanced inside, then took a closer look inside. “What on-?”

Greg reached inside a drew out one of the boxes. It was very colorfully decorated in pink and white with bold text. He turned it over to look at the front, and wasn’t sure whether he should laugh or cry. “Disney Princesses plasters?” He asked, voice almost breaking as he said the words he was sure he had to be reading wrong. Even with the ‘not actual size’ images of well-known Disney Princesses right there on the box.

“You did mention feeling like a damsel in distress, these may help,” Mycroft commented and Greg looked up at him to see Mycroft was practically smirking at him.

“Right, I’m sure they will,” Greg agreed, still a little confused. He switched hands and reached into the bag for the second box, one he was much more familiar with. “Ah, see these will be actually helpful,” Greg announced, shaking the box of Nicotine patches.

“I’m sure you’ll find both very useful,” Anthea joined in, giving Greg a look that made him feel a little bad for doubting her since she had bought these and she always seemed to have whatever Mycroft needed.

“Right, well, thanks,” Greg said. “I think.”

“Lestrade! We need you inside!” Donovan’s voice called across the crime scene to him.

He turned around, dropping the box back inside the bag, to see Sally standing in front of the blockade of police cars, waving to him. 

Greg waved back and shouted, “Be right there!” Then he turned back to Anthea and Mycroft to say, reluctantly, “Sorry, I have to go. There’s still a lot to process.”

“No worry, Lestrade,” Mycroft said, stepping back towards the car. “We’ll let you get back to your work.” He folded himself inside the car, and closed the door before Greg could even attempt to say goodbye first. 

Anthea reached out to lightly rest a hand on his arm then told him quietly, “Call whenever you want, and if you ever need something. One of us will always answer.”

“Thanks,” Greg said gratefully, nodding to her. He didn’t know Anthea very well, but he knew she was essential to Mycroft. And now it seemed she was offering to extend that to him as well. Greg didn’t really know what he was supposed to say to that. “And thanks for the, er, gifts,” he told Anthea, lifting the bag.

“No problem at all, Detective Inspector,” Anthea replied with a slight smirk as she started to get back into the car. “I hope you find a use for them.”

“I’m sure I will,” Greg answered without any doubt at all.

Then she closed the driver's side door, and soon she and Mycroft were driving off down the street. So Greg turned around and started to slowly walk back towards the crime scene, carrying his bag of... interesting goods.


	4. Chapter 4

4.

The less said about the Melas affair, the better. It was the one time in his entire career that Greg wished he had listened to Mycroft and his higher-ups, and left the whole thing alone. Some cases weren’t worth investigating and should remain closed for good reasons.

Greg had thought he’d known that, but the Melas affair taught him better.

It had begun as an ordinary John Doe case, which were always unfortunate but most of the time they were able to identify the people in the end. The body of an older Mediterranean man had washed downriver into central London, wearing clothes but with no identifying marks or identification. They’d taken down everything they could at the scene then set about working to identify the man.

The always-reliable Molly Hooper at the hospital morgue who performed the man’s autopsy turned out to be a wealth of information. She discovered the man was Greek, and in his mid-40s. He had died of asphyxiation and oxygen deprivation several days ago, but she wasn’t able to be more specific since the river had deteriorated the body so thoroughly. His body had drifted in from somewhere outside London, and he had some kind of inked design on his upper arm.

So with all of that information, Greg and his team started to investigate. Which was when the strange things started to happen.

First they looked through the recent missing persons; but none of them matched their John Doe’s description. Greg went to the Greek consulate, since the man could possibly be a Greek citizen; but the official Greg talked to, after hours of waiting, refused to confirm or deny the man’s existence. Although Greg noticed he did react to the picture Greg showed him, looking a little alarmed and worried. 

When it was obvious they weren’t getting anywhere with identifying the man, Greg was tempted to contact Sherlock and see if the boy could get anywhere finding out who the man was. But it turned out Sherlock and John Watson was busy with another case involving mysterious deaths and graffiti, working with another DI.

They were left on their own to solve the mystery of the man’s identity, trying to figure out where he’d come from and running every possible search against every possible database.

Without any results. It was as if the man didn’t exist.

Then the next day Greg was called up by the Chief Superintendent and warned in no uncertain terms to stop investigating the man, to close and bury the case. Someone was obviously influencing the Chief Superintendent into warning him off, and Greg was expected to fall in line.

Greg replied with platitudes and reassurances that he’d heard and understood the situation. Which meant he was allowed to leave the glass-walled overly fancy office that made him incredibly uncomfortable and return to his comfortable, cramped, paper-stacked office.

Where he promptly called Donovan into his office for an update on the latest about the case. Which was basically nothing.

Since there was nothing more they could do, Greg and his team took the rest of the day off. All they could do was wait for some kind of lead to turn up now. Otherwise there was nothing more they could really do. They might actually have to close the case and leave him unidentified forever.

Greg went home, and spent the entire night on the sofa with a beer in one hand and watched mindless television. He kept his mobile at hand on the cushion next to him; partially in hope he’d get word of a break in the case, and also in case Mycroft happened to contact him. Since Greg knew Mycroft was more than just a minor government official and actually knew about everything that went on in the government.

But his mobile remained silent on both accounts the entire night. Greg actually fell asleep in front of the television, and only woke up when the alarm on his phone went off ridiculously early.

When he managed to dress himself and make toast so he couldn’t be nagged about eating, Greg went into the office. Sally was already there at her desk, doing something on her computer. He barely managed to grab a coffee (the office filth still counted) and unlock his office, before Sally jumped on him.

Turned out they had gotten a notification from the Home Office earlier with a match for their mystery man to a recent immigration entry into the UK from Greece. Sally even conveniently had a photocopy of the man’s passport. The visa detailed he was a Greek citizen but was traveling to the UK for undisclosed government work. The photograph roughly matched the John Doe they were investigating, after a few days swim in the river following being suffocated.

So they were finally able to identify their John Doe as Ezeke Melas, a Greek citizen who had come to the UK three days ago for undisclosed government work. And had disappeared after renting a car at the airport and driving off towards the city.

Greg set Sally on trying to find out what had happened to Melas after he left the airport, and seeing if he had left a trail at all. While he had the more enjoyable task of trying to find someone at the Greek consulate or in the Greek government who would acknowledge the man existed.

Of course when Greg explained why he was calling no one wanted to talk to him, and the few who accepted his call refused to confirm the man’s identity or that he did work with the UK government. So even knowing the man’s identity wasn’t actually helpful.

Sally managed to find several traffic cameras that had caught snapshots of Melas driving away from the airport, but strangely as he got closer to the center of the city where there were even more cameras, they lost track of Melas’ car.

Greg went into his office, slammed the door, and dropped heavily down into the chair behind his desk. There was a headache growing behind his eyes at the constant dead-ended puzzle this case was turning into. He had to get a break in this case, eventually. It just had to happen. He refused to let this case slip through his fingers.

He may have drifted off or it really was a few seconds later that there was an insistent knock on his door.

“Just give me a second, Sally! Take a ten minute break!” Greg shouted in the general direction of the door without lifting his head off his crossed arms on the desk.

He heard the doorknob twist and the door give a soft click as it opened. Apparently Sally needed to be reminded to listen to her betters. But he was too tired at the moment.

“Really, Detective Inspector,” came the familiar amused drawl, “Is this how our police force behaves behind closed doors? For shame.”

Greg jerked upright in his chair, dangerously flinging himself backwards, to see Mycroft standing just inside the door to his office. He was wearing his less fancy outfit sans waistcoat and suit jacket and, umbrella. Greg had thought he carried that everywhere.

“Mycroft? What are you doing here?” Greg asked, standing up and trying to make himself look a little more presentable. Not that Mycroft would really care. “Don’t you have more important secretive government business to be busy doing?”

Mycroft smiled at him, not responding to Greg’s teasing. Instead he raised one hand to reveal a brown paper bag, and gestured with his other hand where he was holding a carrier with two coffee cups in it.

“Mycroft Holmes,” Greg said, skirting around his desk and walked over to Mycroft. “Did you bring me treats?”

“I thought you may enjoy a proper restaurant prepared meal, instead of whatever take away you may be attempting to live on,” Mycroft told him, unfairly moving the coffee carrier away from Greg when he tried to reach for it. “And you obviously need proper coffee.”

“Which you’re currently denying me,” Greg pointed out, trying not to give away how delicious the food from the bag smelled. It was making his mouth water.

“Get your coat, Lestrade. We’re going outside,” Mycroft directed, nodding to where Greg had flung his coat over a coat stand in the corner earlier that day. “And leave your mobile, you can be unavailable for a half hour.”

Greg debated that for the time it took to pull on his coat before finally deciding that Mycroft was probably right. It was only a half hour and he knew Sally could be depended on to take care of anything that may come up.

“All right, lead on,” Greg said, adjusting his coat and slipping his wallet into one of the pockets. He followed Mycroft out of his office and pulled the door closed before joining Mycroft as they exited the building. Sally gave him a slightly worried look as they passed her but Greg just gave her a reassuring smile.

Once they were outside on the street Greg looked around for Mycroft’s black car he expected to be idling nearby. But instead Mycroft continued walking towards the street then turned to walk down the pavement.

After they’d gone an entire block without talking, Greg finally turned to look over at Mycroft and asked, “So, where exactly are we going?”

“The park, I think we would both enjoy some greenery and some quiet,” Mycroft explained without turning his head. “It’s not currently a busy hour so there shouldn’t be much of a crowd.”

Greg nearly stumbled at the idea of Mycroft Holmes voluntarily entering a park, and then had to hurry to catch up as Mycroft continued walking. “So you’re kidnapping me to have lunch and coffee in the park? That’s...new.”

Mycroft’s expression did that strange disquieting shuttering where suddenly he switched from just Mycroft to Mycroft Holmes, the British Government (if Sherlock could be believed). “I thought you might enjoy a good meal and proper coffee, and that the park may be a nice change of scenery. But if you’d rather go somewhere else…”

“No, no!” Greg quickly denied, quickening his pace. It was strange to have to reassure Mycroft when the man was usually so confident about everything. But maybe he was not as experienced in the area of social friendships as he was work acquaintance. Really it would make sense.

They were silent the rest of the way to the park, falling into only slightly awkward silence as they crossed the street and walked through the gates to the park. They didn’t go very far inside, settling down on one of the first benches they saw.

Once they were sitting down Mycroft finally relinquished the coffee to Greg. He quickly snatched up the cup with his name on it and swallowed as much as he could without burning his tongue. It was delicious and worlds away from the swill of the office coffee Greg had been forced to survive on for the last few days.

“Careful Detective Inspector,” Mycroft warned as he pulled container after container out of the bag like some kind of magician. “Your coffee isn’t going anywhere, and if necessary I can always go buy more.”

“You obviously don’t understand the wonders of coffee that isn’t office swill,” Greg scolded, wrapping his hands around the coffee cup. “And I’d watch your own coffee if I were you.”

Mycroft glanced up at him briefly, the edges of his mouth pulling slightly. “Understood.” 

From the very bottom of the bag Mycroft pulled out plastic cutlery and napkins, setting them next to the nondescript containers on the bench. “Dig in, Lestrade. I asked for a little of everything from their menu so there should be a variety of options.”

Greg reached out to pull off the top of the container closest to him, and revealed some of the most delicious looking and smelling food Greg had ever seen. “Mycroft, this is amazing. I can’t believe you did this.”

“It was no problem, Lestrade. Anthea had been threatening for several hours to escort me from the office if I continued to work.” Mycroft explained sincerely, beginning to peel off the tops of the other containers. “Briefly joining you for food and coffee here was the compromise we settled on.”

Greg laughed, although he could actually imagine Anthea escorting Mycroft out of whatever building his office was in. Even possibly with force. “Well thank you, it’s nice to see a friendly face. Even from the government.”

“Yes, I’ve heard you haven’t been on very friendly terms with the government lately.” Mycroft said musingly, struggling with unwrapping the utensils from their plastic wrap. “Or with your Chief Superintendent.”

Greg paused with a fork piled with food halfway to his mouth. “How, how did you hear about that?” He asked staring across at Mycroft.

Looking amused Mycroft glanced down at the fork then back up to Greg. “Eat your food, Lestrade. And no need to worry, I haven’t been spreading tales about you.”

Greg resumed eating but continued looking at Mycroft, waiting for an answer.

After taking much longer than necessary to consider the containers of food, Mycroft finally said, “There have been stories making the rounds about a particularly stubborn Detective Inspector sticking his nose into business that doesn’t concern him. And asking questions about a particular foreign government contractor of whom he shouldn’t have any knowledge.”

“What?”

“I have also heard that your Chief Superintendent is not particularly pleased with your recent actions, especially after he specifically warned you about continuing your investigation.” Mycroft sighed quietly and took a generous forkful from one of the containers. “It’s unfortunate that Mr. Melas is being treated this way following his death. He deserved better.”

“What?” Greg practically squawked, absently grateful he had mostly finished eating his last forkful. A few of the bolder pedestrians walking past treated him to a curious look, but Greg ignored them. Instead he glared in shock at Mycroft. “You knew the man? All this time and you didn’t saying anything even though you obviously knew I was investigating him?”

Mycroft treated him to a patient, slightly amused look. But he took an irritatingly long time to finish chewing and swallowing his food before he finally responded. “I was under very strict instructions not to reach out to you if you didn’t contact me. Especially since you didn’t seem aware I’d known the man. And yes,” Mycroft added at Greg’s quiet scoff, “I do in fact have superiors I’m expected to listen to, the same as you.”

Greg took a sip of his coffee, reflecting on everything Mycroft had told him. “Well it makes sense now why I wasn’t getting anywhere trying to talk to government people about him. If everyone was told not to talk to me.”

He looked across at Mycroft over the top of his coffee cup. “Should I ask if you’re actually allowed to tell me any of this?”

Mycroft laughed quietly, dipping his fork into several containers, which seemed out of character for him, but human. “Officially I am to tell you that I had contact with Mr. Melas several times within his role as a Greek translator for our government as a foreign consultant. However I did not know the man personally well enough to comment on his death.”

When Mycroft didn’t continue speaking but instead started slowly eating the food, Greg prodded, “Unofficially…?”

“Unofficially,” Mycroft began, deliberately drawing out the word before swallowing, “Mr. Melas was a kind, knowledgeable man who more than likely accidentally became mixed up with the wrong type of people and his death was at their hands. He was more comfortable with his books and papers than with people, and not the best judge of character. Unfortunately since he wasn’t closely watched during his time here I don’t actually know who those people were.”

Greg sighed, a little disappointed, and went back to picking at the food in the containers. “Well, that’s more than I knew an hour ago. So thanks for that much at least.”

“In fact, there is something else,” Mycroft announced, sipping slowly at his own coffee cup. “If you look inside the bag you’ll find a folder with information about Melas you may find helpful.”

When Greg set down his fork and started to reach for the bag, Mycroft actually tsked at him. “Not now,” he scolded sharply without actually looking at Greg.

“Sorry,” Greg offered without really meaning it. “I’m not as experienced with covert operations as you are.”

“Honestly, Lestrade,” Mycroft chided, but he sounded more amused than annoyed now. And he’d gone back to picking up forkfuls of food. “I hold a minor position in the British government, I’m not a spy.”

Greg decided it wasn’t worth debating that, or if Anthea was. Instead he struggled with Mycroft for the last bit of food from one of the containers, and won. “So can you tell me what’s in the folder now, or do I have to wait until I get back to my office?”

“I’m afraid you truly can’t investigate Melas’ death any further, you’ll have to close the case and have the circumstances remain a mystery,” Mycroft told him in confidence, but without the haughty tone the Chief Superintendent had used when warning Greg off. “Nothing good will happen for you or for the government if you try to track down the real culprits.” 

“However,” Mycroft quickly continued when Greg was about to put up a protest, “Melas had a sister, you’ll find her contact information inside the folder. And I’ve instructed Molly Hooper to submit paperwork allowing for Melas’ body to be transferred over to his sister's’ custody once she arrives in London. So at least he will be able to be properly buried with his family.”

After a long pause Greg finally said, with reluctant acceptance, “Well it’s not much, but at least it’s something.”

“True, still less than he deserved,” Mycroft agreed, taking a long sip of his coffee. “Melas was a good man.”

They ate the rest of the food in silence, until there were only scraps left in each of the containers. Together they worked to clean everything up and toss things away. 

Then the two of them left the park and parted ways to return to their offices and the harshness of reality. The indistinctive paper bag with an important file inside tucked carefully under Greg’s arm.


	5. Chapter 5

5.

The entire event of the pips and hostages and Sherlock and John running around London trying to solve puzzles against an impossible deadline was… disastrous… And terrible. To say the least.

Really it was a testament to Sherlock's brilliance that they only lost one hostage, and that wasn't actually Sherlock's fault. Even though Greg just knew the boy was silently punishing himself for it. 

But the better Sherlock did solving the puzzles, the more enthusiastic the mystery puppet master became. Tempers started flaring, hours started blurring together, and the pressure only continued to increase. Even Sherlock and John, whose-whatever they were- Greg had been sure could withstand anything seemed to be on thin ice with each other.

Throughout the entire thing Greg had been worrying over what all of this could be building up to. They survived four of the five pips… the countdowns and time between each growing shorter each time. Until suddenly, it was hours after Sherlock had solved the fourth case and the hostage- just a kid for god’s sake! - had been rescued… And nothing.

Greg had sent Sally and the rest of the team home and was alone in his office staring at the wall and dreading what could possibly be next when his mobile started vibrating on the desk in front of him.

Thinking it was Sherlock, since he was the Holmes who always texted no matter what, Greg snatched up his mobile and turned it over to see the screen.

The new message was not from Sherlock but from Mycroft, and it was horribly eerily similar to the mystery text Greg had received all those years ago.

Sherlock's gone to meet the man alone. At midnight. Meet us there.

Below was an address for a local community pool luckily not so far away.

Greg jumped up from his chair, pulled on his coat one-handed, then grabbed his keys and full out ran towards where he’d left his police issued vehicle.

It was late enough Greg encountered very few other cars on his drive towards the community pool. Which was probably a good thing since he wasn’t driving very smart or safely. It took him less time than he’d expected to make it from the Yard to the community pool, yet when he pulled into the lot Mycroft’s familiar black car was already there.

Greg tumbled out of his car, locked it, and quickly hurried over towards Mycroft’s car. As he walked up to it the back door opened to reveal Mycroft sitting stiffly in the back seat, a mobile held to his ear while he conversed with Anthea who was sitting on the seat opposite him.

Anthea had her usual mobile in her hand and was typing as quickly as he had ever seen her, while also answering and redirecting Mycroft’s questions.

During a brief pause in conversation Mycroft finally turned to look up at Greg. “Hello, Lestrade. Thank you for coming.”

“Of course I came, don’t be ridiculous.” Greg quickly scolded with a wave of his hand. “I’m supposed to be heading this investigation anyways, even if Sherlock wasn’t involved. So fill me in.”

“Approximately twenty minutes ago Sherlock entered the building through the door in front of us. So far there is no sign of the person Sherlock should be meeting. Even though there are only minutes before the planned time.” Anthea announced evenly and succinctly, still looking down at her mobile screen.

“Any update on the number of people inside?” Mycroft asked sounding hopeful.

But Anthea shook her head. “The scans still aren’t able to get through into the center of the building. As far as we can tell right now there may be between three and five people inside.”

Mycroft’s mouth pressed together into a thin, unimpressed line. “Not good enough. Anthea dear, I don’t suppose you would be interested in some recon work.”

“Should I be calling for backup, or for paramedics?” Greg asked curiously, looking over his shoulder at the building in front of them.

“No need for that yet, Lestrade,” Mycroft said sounding distracted as he scrolled through something on his phone. “Interesting, before Sherlock left Baker Street and the cameras began malfunctioning John Watson left the building several minutes earlier. Yet there’s no sign of him on any cameras on the streets nearby.”

“John’s disappeared now too?” Greg repeated feeling a growing sense of dread. That instinct that said something was very wrong. “What about his mobile, have you tried calling him? Sherlock wouldn’t be that idiotic enough to have this meeting without John with him.”

“It transfers directly to voicemail, it must be turned off.” Anthea announced, pulling the mobile away from her ear. “There’s no way to get a hold of him.”

“You don’t,” Greg had to clear his throat to make his voice work properly. “You don’t think John was taken for the fifth pip.”

Mycroft and Anthea very carefully didn’t say anything or look at him.

“Oh god.” Greg muttered, feeling a very distinct urge to sit down now before his legs gave out on him.

Then, as tended to happen, things became even worse.

Behind them, after a very loud, thunderous boom… the building behind them collapsed in on itself. A wave of dust and debris crashed outward from the site, and Greg took as much shelter as he could behind the car door while he heard Mycroft and Anthea coughing inside the car.

It felt like it lasted forever, but in reality it was only seconds. Finally the wave of debris stopped, and they were left with poor visibility of dust and debris thickened air.

Greg slowly straightened to peer over the top of the car door at the mountainous pile of rubble, debris, and scrap metals that was all that was left of the pool building. “That… is not good.”

“Emergency crews and paramedics are on their way,” Anthea announced coughing, covering her mouth with one hand and typing on her mobile with the other. “ETA fifteen minutes.”

“What if they don’t have that much time?” Greg demanded, staring across the seemingly endless mountainous expanse of debris. “If they were inside then that entire building just collapsed on top of them. And the man behind all of this has proven he doesn’t have any misgivings about strapping people in bomb vests and is perfectly willing to kill them. He wouldn’t worry about them dying.”

“We’re not even certain the man came here, there’s no sign of his arriving,” Mycroft reminded him. Greg turned around to stare at him, stunned; but Mycroft’s voice was much calmer than his not so calm exterior gave away. His mobile was practically cracking in his hand.

“I’m not willing to take that risk,” Greg said sharply, looking down between Anthea and Mycroft who were still mostly shielded within the car. “If the two of you are, then fine. But I can’t just sit here and wait.”

Without waiting for Mycroft or Anthea to respond, Greg stepped out from behind the car door and started walking towards the mountain of rubble. The practical shoes he wore on cases helped him climb over the scattered debris and rubble without stumbling or falling on his face. His coat and outfit wasn’t so practical but he didn’t care at the moment.

Greg managed to pick his way towards what was left of the building. Then, when he couldn’t really go any further, Greg bent down and started doing his best to move what he could out of the way.

Sure he wasn’t in the best shape, it wasn’t like he had any time in his days for exercise, but these felt ridiculously heavy. Greg tried to ignore the dust that was now all over his clothes, and the stinging in his hands from the rough and sharp edges he was handling, and keep going. He wasn’t going very quickly, it was hard to with the sheer amount of debris and rubble and how heavy they were, but he had to be making some progress. It was only right that he try to do everything he could to help find and recover Sherlock and John in all of this mess while they still had a chance of being alive.

Some time later Greg felt a hand rest on his shoulder and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned in that direction, his knee nearly skidding on the slippery ground, to see Mycroft bending down next to him.

“Lestrade,” Mycroft called, his hand still lightly gripping Greg’s shoulder. Then after a pause he corrected himself to, “Greg.”

Greg stared up at the other man in surprise, hands still gripping the sides of the piece of rubble. “That’s the first time you’ve called me by my first name.” He pointed out, a little distracted.

“You need to stop Greg, you’re only hurting yourself.” Mycroft told him quietly but firmly. “The paramedics and emergency services will arrive momentarily and I have every confidence Sherlock and John will be recovered alive. They will be taken to hospital, where they will fully recover with time and care.”

Greg let his hands slip away from the piece of rubble to hang loosely at his sides. “How can you be so sure?” He asked quietly, his voice rough. “That was an entire building that just blew up on top of them.”

A small smile crept across Mycroft’s face, and he bent down closer to Greg. “Because Sherlock is my brother, Greg. Even this won’t manage to stop him. And John Watson is just as stubborn as Sherlock. They wouldn’t dare not survive this.” 

The hand on his shoulder squeezed gently as Mycroft continued. “They’re both still alive and we will find them. Then once they’re better you can scold both of them as much as you’d like about their recklessness.”

Greg laughed, scrubbing the back of his hand across his forehead. “That sounds good, I’d really like to do that right now.”

“You’re not alone,” Mycroft told him kindly before taking his hand and carefully helping Greg to his feet. 

Before Greg could pull his hand away Mycroft turned it over and tsked at the cuts, bruises, and scraped skin there from handling the debris and rubble. “Really, Greg, you need to take care of yourself.” He took Greg’s other hand and lifted it up for inspection. It was just as or worse than the other one. “We’ll have the paramedics look at these and wrap them for you. We can’t have an injured Detective Inspector.”

Greg silently let Mycroft lead him back to the car where he was carefully settled on the back seat. Mycroft took off his own coat and wrapped it around Greg’s shoulders before instructing Anthea to look after him. Then Mycroft took his phone from his pocket, dialed, then walked away a fair distance from the car.

Anthea took one glance at Greg’s current condition, lingering on his hands, and gave him a very unimpressed look. Then she turned, and like some kind of magician produced a first aid kit from some hidden compartment. Anthea set it down on the seat, opened it, and set about cleaning Greg’s hands.

A few minutes later the paramedics and emergency services arrived, and the site descended into some kind of organized chaos.

Everyone worked together while Greg felt like he could barely breathe his chest felt so tight with mixed dread and hope, sequestered standing with Mycroft and Anthea still by the car. Meanwhile the paramedics and emergency services worked tirelessly around them.

Finally after what seemed like forever most of the rubble was cleared. The paramedics were carefully lowered down into what remained of the pool, where the building rubble and water from the pool had slid together into a dangerous pit.

As they waited for the call with Sherlock and John’s condition everyone on the scene stilled, poised for whatever action would be needed. Greg’s gaze was locked on the small cleared area yards in front of them the paramedics had disappeared down into. But he thought he felt a hand rest on his shoulder and squeeze comfortingly.

Then the call went out across the scene that Sherlock and John had been found. Unconscious, but alive.

After one of the worst short time spans in his life Greg finally drew in a long shaky breath, relaxing a little. Beside him he heard Mycroft sigh quietly and finally give up his watch. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Anthea quickly pick up her mobile and begin typing rapidly.

In short order first John was brought up and the paramedics quickly took over his care, loading him onto a stretcher and carefully wheeling him over to one of the waiting ambulances. Greg followed after the stretcher, just a few steps behind the paramedics.

A few minutes later Sherlock was brought up, and from the way the paramedics were much more careful this time, Greg suspected the boy was in much worse condition. Mycroft quickly strode over to descend on the paramedics looking after his brother and invited himself along inside the ambulance as it drove off towards the nearest hospital.

Greg showed his warrant card to the paramedics and was allowed along with them to hospital, the same one they were taking John. As they rushed down the street, siren and lights blaring, Greg glanced out the back window to see Anthea driving Mycroft’s car right behind them.

____

+1

Ever since Sherlock and John Watson had arrived at hospital Mycroft had refused to leave Sherlock’s side. He knew there wasn’t anything he could do; he had no medical knowledge that could help his brother. But just by being there for Sherlock it felt like he was doing something.

The doctors and medical staff managed to stabilize Sherlock, treating his minor wounds and allowing him to breathe again by help of machines. They reassured Mycroft over and over again that Sherlock would be fine, he would wake up anytime now; until Mycroft started to understand his brother’s fury at people stating the obvious.

Until that happened Mycroft remained in the chair at Sherlock’s bedside in the room Sherlock was confined to, refusing to leave. He knew Greg was just outside the door, a silent sentry and guard if anyone tried to get in. Anthea was elsewhere in the hospital looking after John Watson and being updated on his condition. 

But for now, his place was next to his brother.

They hadn’t gotten along for a long time now; their relationship had been tenuous and difficult at best. But Mycroft had done his best, and used his not inconsiderable power, to look after and take care of his brother. Even when they were younger it had been up to him to watch over Sherlock and fix any problems.

Yet now, even with John Watson and Gregory Lestrade, an army doctor and a police officer, watching over Sherlock as well his brother had still managed to risk his life with his recklessness.

Was it even possible to save Sherlock from himself? To protect him at all from everything the world could send his way?

Mycroft heard the door to the room quietly click open, but he recognized Greg’s distinctive footsteps so he didn’t look up as the other man stopped next to his chair.

“You know he’ll be all right, Mycroft,” Greg told him softly; confident in what he was saying as Greg often was. “The doctors all say he’ll be on his feet and recovered in no time. Then he’ll be running around the city solving cases with John and annoying us to no end all over again.”

Mycroft sighed, running his fingers over the fabric of the blanket beside Sherlock’s silent, still form. “And we’ll have to worry about this happening again.”

Greg laughed then balanced himself precariously on the arm of Mycroft’s chair. “He wouldn’t be Sherlock otherwise. And you know you would miss it.”

Mycroft hummed quietly, restraining the ridiculous urge to touch his brother- as if that would help to ensure Sherlock’s recovery. After several silent minutes Mycroft admitted in a little more than a whisper, “I always told him caring wasn’t an advantage.”

“I think you’ve proven that’s wrong for yourself,” Greg offered thoughtfully, after considering for nearly a minute. “Caring just means you’re human, and that someone means enough to you that you choose to care about them.”

Mycroft didn’t answer right away, he wasn’t how to. Instead he looked over at where Greg sat bare inches away, mobile gripped tightly in one hand so he could be informed at a moment’s notice about any updates. Yet in the meantime Greg had chosen to come here and sit with him at Sherlock’s side, of all of the places he should right now.

Slowly, carefully, Mycroft reached over and lightly linked his fingers with Greg’s; Greg didn’t put up any resistance, instead his fingers tightened around Mycroft’s own and squeezed gently.

Mycroft decided he didn’t actually need to say anything; not even a thank you for being here, for everything Greg had done. Instead he turned back and together he and Greg resumed their silent guard over Sherlock.


End file.
